


The Secrets They Keep

by Sarina_Hawke_Theirin



Series: Kings And Queens Of Promise: The Backstories [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fantasy, Prequel, Romance, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarina_Hawke_Theirin/pseuds/Sarina_Hawke_Theirin
Summary: A group of Grey Wardens is sent to investigate a secret prison in the Vinmark Mountains after months of no reports. Upon their arrival, they find more trouble than they bargained for when they realize the commander is under the spell of the ancient evil locked within. Somehow, they must find a way to stop the thing imprisoned there from escaping using any means necessary, including threatening an apostate with the one thing he can't lose.Prequel to "The True Tale of the Fifth Blight"





	1. Failing Seals

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://postimg.org/image/5bra4lylx/)   
> 

Larius rested the weight of his upper body on his forearms as he leaned over the bridge overlooking a dusty, dried up riverbed. Even though the High Constable had told Senior Warden Kern that the mission they were sent on was of the highest priority, Kern still insisted on making camp the night before they were to reach their final destination. It was barely past dawn. Most of the valley between the foothills of that area of the Vinmark Mountains was still in darkness, but that didn’t stop it from already being unbearably hot.

A southwestern breeze picked up long enough to blow dust and sand into Larius’s azure eyes and ruffle his chestnut brown hair. He blinked several times in order to get his tear ducts working to remove the offending grains before heaving a sigh that caused his broad shoulders and chest to rise and fall with the effort. He had hoped the trip to the Vinmarks would be a pleasant change from the arid steppes of the Anderfels, but in that particular place, it seemed to be more of the same. Everything in the valley was as dry and dead as all the other desert-like regions in Thedas tainted by the Blights. Growing up, he never thought he would miss the stink of fish and saltwater that permeated everything in the coastal city of Jader, but after nine years in the Anderfels, he would give anything to go back.

“Something wrong, Larius?” Janeka asked as she joined him on the bridge.

He turned his head and gave her a tight-lipped smile. Janeka was always full of questions, which annoyed Larius to no end. It had only been seven months since she underwent the Joining and for some reason beyond his comprehension, she decided that she wanted him to be her mentor. Barely past adolescence, she wasn’t an ugly girl by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, with her clear, olive complexion, curious bright green eyes and thick, shoulder-length hair curtaining her face in waves of the darkest, richest brown, most men would have called her stunning. Yet, there was just something about her that rubbed Larius the wrong way. Unfortunately for him, no matter how many times he tried to pawn her off onto one of the other Wardens, she just wouldn’t leave him alone.

“No, just enjoying the weather.”

She snorted a laugh, apparently finding the older Warden’s sarcasm funnier than what he intended. He leaned into the bridge further before rolling his eyes just out of her sight. “It’s not so bad, Larius. Not any worse than the Anderfels, anyway.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel whole lot better, Jan.”

Another laugh. Larius hoped to the Maker that Kern would give the order to pull out soon so he would have an excuse to get away from the girl. A few minutes later, Larius’s prayers were answered when Roland came to inform them it was time to leave. As usual, Janeka wasn’t willing to let Larius off the hook so easily. As they marched toward the hidden prison deeper into the valley, she fell in step next to him.

“So what do you think we’ll find when we get there?” she questioned.

He shrugged. “Who knows? Probably nothing.”

“I heard Kern say that the Commander hasn’t sent a report in months.”

Larius continued to keep his eyes on the road ahead in hopes that, if he seemed disinterested enough in their conversation, she would tire of talking to him and move on to Roland or Alec. “Maybe he just got busy and forgot.”

“Forgot?” she balked. “How could a Commander of the Grey just forget to report to Weisshaupt?”

He scowled. “It was a joke, Jan. Don’t get your smalls in a twist.”

Janeka smiled sheepishly and tucked a wisp of hair behind her left ear. “Oh…sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jan,” Larius sighed. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

“So what do you really think is down there?”

“I don’t have the foggiest,” he admitted. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

Larius hoped that would be the end of it, but, as usual, Janeka continued to prattle on, stuck to his side like glue until they arrived at the outer gates of the prison. She probably wouldn’t have even stopped then if Kern hadn’t called for them to be quiet. Something was definitely wrong. Normally the area would have been guarded by at least a half dozen Wardens, but there was no one there and the iron bars were open wide to allow anyone who happened by entry.

Kern’s deep brown eyes darted back and forth as he tried to detect any hint of movement or sound. He scratched at the salt and pepper stubble at his chin a moment, his face set in a grimace that deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Resolved to press on, he finally motioned with his hand for the rest of them to follow as he headed toward the carved stone archway. When they got to the barracks outside the prison entrance, they found more of the same. Not one living soul, only the eerie silence of a completely abandoned outpost.

“What happened here?” the Senior Warden mumbled to himself.

“Perhaps we should venture further in?” offered Larius.

“I don’t think we have much choice in the matter. We need to find out what happened to everyone. I want you all to stay close. Whatever is going on, I don’t want any of you trying to play the hero. We’ll search for clues then get the void out of here as fast as possible. I don’t think I want to be here when night falls.”

Larius got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had known Kern since he joined the Grey Wardens. In fact, the Senior Warden was the one recruited him, and he had never heard an ounce of fear in the man’s voice until that very moment. Kern moved out in front of the small procession once more and led them toward the entrance of the prison. The six Wardens had barely made it inside when Kern dropped to one knee to examine what looked to have once been a body dressed in a scout’s uniform.

The Senior Warden shook his head. “Maker’s mercy. This man’s been ripped open from stem to stern.”

Janeka’s green eyes went wide, her face ashen with fear. “Who in the Maker’s name could have done such a thing? And why?”

“I think you mean, what,” Kern corrected.

Larius’s brows knitted together in a deep frown. “Darkspawn?”

The Senior Warden nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

“But how?” the younger man wondered. “The other Wardens would have seen any spawn approaching from the desert, and I thought any inside the prison were trapped by the seals.”

“What seals?” Janeka questioned.

Before he could answer her, out of the corner of his eye, Larius caught sight of young Dursten gadding about the room as if in some sort of trance. “Dursten?” he queried, but the other man continued on as if no one else was present. Larius snapped his fingers. “Dursten!” he shouted. Still no change. He stepped around the younger Warden, grabbed him by the shoulders and began shaking him. “Dursten! Snap out of it!”

Dursten blinked his eyes as the man holding him came into focus. “Larius? Do…do you hear it? The voice?”

Larius stopped for a moment to listen. Although he heard nothing beyond Dursten’s heavy breathing with his ears, it did seem as if someone was speaking to him in the recesses of his mind, telling him to venture further inside the prison. He turned to Kern. “He’s right. There’s a…a voice…inside my head.”

Alec breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought it was just me. I didn’t want to say anything because I thought I might have been losing my mind.”

“Is it an archdemon?” Roland questioned.

Kern ran his palm down the length of his face with a heavy sigh. “No. It’s the reason this prison was built in the first place. It’s Corypheus.”

“Corypheus?” Janeka asked. “Who or what is Corypheus?”

“Many years ago, shortly after the first Blight, a Grey Warden named Sashamiri came across a darkspawn named Corypheus, who was said to be one of the original magisters that attempted to infiltrate the Golden City. Once Corypheus was captured and bound, Sashamiri and other Wardens tried to interrogate him, but they soon found the spawn had the ability to influence those with the taint, not unlike an archdemon. Corypheus used that influence to create chaos among his Warden captors. It was a bloodbath. Those that managed to resist and escape were found wandering the desert some time later, dazed and unable to recall anything about the experience. Fortunately, a journal written by Sashamiri himself was found on one of the men so that no other Wardens would be sent into the area blind.

“Untainted dwarves from Orzammar were commissioned to fashion a proper stronghold for such a dangerous beast. Once the prison had been built and Corypheus isolated in the tower, a non-Warden mage was sent in to create seals to bind the spawn and the demons he called forth for eternity. Once the seals were in place, other Wardens were sent back into the area to guard it from the outside world.”

“But how were those Wardens able to resist Corypheus’s influence?” Alec asked.

“The seals prevented Wardens who hadn’t previously been ‘indoctrinated’, as they called it, from being influenced by Corypheus’s call. They would hear it, but they wouldn’t feel the need to do his bidding.”

“Like an archdemon,” Larius added.

Kern nodded. “Yes. Only one Warden who had been there before the prison was completed ever stepped foot inside the place after it was built and he was lost after he crossed the first barrier in an effort to free the spawn.”

“What do you mean lost?” questioned Janeka. “He just disappeared?”

“No. The seals are designed to allow anyone to enter through the barrier, but once inside, they’re unable to come back out. It was a safeguard put in place for just such an event.”

“So that’s why the Wardens still maintain watch over the prison?” Roland queried. “To prevent anyone outside the Wardens from getting trapped?”

“Not exactly,” Kern replied. “You see, the mind of any other tainted being could still be controlled by Corypheus, something the Wardens discovered quite quickly after a nasty incident with a dwarf who had contracted the taint after a run-in with some darkspawn down in the depths of the prison before the barriers were raised.”

Dursten shifted his weight to his left leg, his mouth curled in a worried frown. “But _we_ should be safe, right?”

Kern scowled. “We need to go further in…to check the main barrier.” He turned to the others. “Let’s move out.”

The knot in Larius’s stomach just continued to worsen the farther they ventured into the prison, and the voice became continually louder. Instead of being in her usual place at Larius’s side, Janeka was in the rear of the file. In fact, all three of the younger Wardens seemed to be lagging behind. Larius wondered to himself if the fact that they were all newly joined was causing them to consider heeding the ancient darkspawn’s call.

“Come on,” he growled over his shoulder. “Keep up you lot.”

The passageways twisted and turned and seemed to go on forever. Just as Larius began to wonder exactly how far underground they were going to have to travel before they came to the first barrier, Kern held up a fist to halt his charges.

“The first barrier should be right there, within that steel reinforcement.” He turned his attention to Janeka. “Alright, sweetheart, you’re up.”

A flash of indignation appeared in the young woman’s green eyes at being addressed in such a manner, but she chose to keep her thoughts to herself as she approached the archway. “What is it exactly that I’m supposed to be doing?”

“I need you to touch the metal to see if any magic remains attached to it,” Kern explained.

Janeka gave him a curt bow of the head before approaching the place where barrier should have been. She slowly reached out her hand and Larius took note of how much her fingers were trembling. Once her fingertips were as close as they could be without actually making contact, the young mage sucked in a deep breath and gave a short tap to the steel before withdrawing her hand as if it were on fire. Her head cocked to one side as her brows furrowed. She examined the archway with her eyes for a long moment then tapped the metal once more. Three more times she banged her fingertips against the archway before placing her palm directly on it and running it up and down the length of both the stone and the steel.

She turned to the others and shook her head. “Not even a trace of magic…of any kind.”

Kern closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He addressed the others. “There’s nothing else for it then. We’ll have to keep going to find out just how many of the seals have been broken.”

And so, they began their trek within the prison, finding broken seal upon broken seal. The only ones that seemed to still be intact were those that were holding several abominations within their confines, but the barriers leading to the tower were all gone. Along the way, they were forced to fight several darkspawn that had apparently chosen to stay within the deep tunnels. They also found what appeared to have once been a small dwarven settlement, more than likely the temporary homes of the dwarves that built the prison, abandoned for centuries. The one thing they didn’t see along the way was a Grey Warden, not one, not even a sign that a Warden had ever been there.

When they finally arrived at the entrance to the tower where Corypheus was bound, they found that barrier gone as well. Upon stepping inside the small chamber, Larius took note of four golden griffon statues surrounding the chamber. The statues appeared to have some sort of amber mist with large flecks of gold streaming from their mouths to a large pedestal in the center of the room. The pedestal itself was made of heavy stone and a warm golden light shone from the two long trenches that crossed each other at a bowl-like dip in the middle.

Kern put a hand to his heart and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker. At least these seals are still holding.”

No sooner had the Senior Warden’s words left his mouth, when a deep voice sounded from the shadows next to one of the statues at the far end of the chamber. “For now.”

Out of the darkness stepped an elf dressed in Warden Armor denoting his position as Commander of the Grey. His lids were narrowed into slits over a pair of moss green eyes. His platinum blonde hair flowed freely down to the middle of his back over a pair of twin blades with handles jutting out right above his shoulders.

Kern had already removed the broadsword from his back and had it at the ready before the elf could even be seen. Upon realizing the identity of the other man, he put the tip of his weapon to the stone next to his feet. “Airador, thank the Maker your alive. You’re the first Warden we’ve seen since we found the dead scout at the entrance.”

Airador’s lips curved into a wistful, albeit slightly deranged, smile. His eyes wandered about the open space above his head as he took in the stars without really seeing them. “The others? Yes…they are about…somewhere.”

While the elf was distracted by his own musings, Kern once again brought his blade to the ready before giving his fellows the nod to follow his lead. “Airador? What’s going on?”

The elf turned his attention back to Kern, the maniacal grin never leaving his face. “Can you not hear him? He calls to us…beckons us from his slumber. He will reveal all…all of his secrets.” Airador approached the pedestal, fell to his knees and lovingly ran his hand across the lettering etched into its side. “But we must be patient. We must wait until the last of these infernal seals are broken. Then the master will be free…Then he will show us…Then he will guide us.”

“Airador!” Kern bellowed. “Snap out of it man!”

The elf peered up from his place on the floor. His face twisted into an angry grimace. “Who are you? Why do you disturb me?”

Larius could see by the expression on Kern’s face that he was beyond worried. The Senior Warden took a tentative step forward. “Maker’s Balls, Ari. What in the bloody void is wrong with you? It’s me, Kern. You presided over my Joining. You trained me, for Andraste’s sake!”

“This is a sacred place,” the elf hissed as if he hadn’t heard a word Kern said. He rose to his full height then pulled his weapons. “If you are not here to honor the master and await his glorious return, you need to go back to whence you came or face his terrible wrath.”

The Senior Warden slowly took several steps back. Though Airador did not sheath his blades, he seemed satisfied by Kern’s actions enough to let his guard down as he dropped to his knees once again. Kern motioned for the others to move onto the bridge outside of the chambers. Once he was sure they were out of the elf’s earshot, he glanced in Airador’s direction then began speaking. “We’re going to have to do something about him.”

“Maybe if we can figure out a way to get him out of here, get him to the surface and away from the prison, he’ll recover his senses,” Janeka suggested.

Kern gave a nod. “That’s my hope, but…the way he’s acting, that may not be a possibility.”

“Well we can’t just kill him,” Alec insisted. “He’s a Commander.”

“We may not have a choice,” Kern told him.

Roland’s eyes darted back and forth, searching the paths around them. “So what do we do if the other Wardens show up?”

During the conversation, Larius attempted to keep an eye out for just such an occurrence. As if in answer from some divine force, he spotted the glint of silver upon an outcropping of rock just below the west side statue of Corypheus’s chamber. The others began asking where he was wandering off to as he approached the stone barrier of the span.

“I have a feeling we don’t need to worry about the other Wardens,” he surmised in a faraway voice. “It looks like the Commander’s killed them all.”

His fellows ran to his side to determine the truth of his words. Janeka gasped upon seeing all of the uniformed bodies littering various areas of the canyon below. With all those that could be seen with the naked eye within the light of the full moon, there was no telling how many others had fallen deeper into the chasm.

Kern shook his head, his jaw clenched with determination. He didn’t even wait for the others as he marched back into the chamber. “Airador Vaneth!” he roared with anger. “As Senior Warden and now surviving ranking officer of this post, I charge you with both murder and treason to the order of the Grey Wardens. You are hereby relieved of your command until such time that a tribunal can be held to determine your guilt or innocence.”

Airador’s eyes went wide with shocked indignation before breaking into a demented cackle. “Do you not yet understand? You pitiful little worm. I no longer care for your order or your command. My life is bound to the master. I live to serve only him and the gods of the Imperium.”

“Then you will die in your service to your heathen gods, traitor!” Kern seethed before rushing headlong toward the elf.

Airador dodged the attack before spinning on his heel and pummeling the Senior Warden with the blunt end of the dagger gripped in his right hand. Kern twisted in an effort to knock the elf’s feet out from under him, but he leapt out of the way at the last second before impact.

When the fighting broke out, the four youngest Wardens among them fell to the stone floor, hands on their heads, writhing in pain. Larius felt it too, the stinging prickle of a thousand tiny needles poking into his brain, but in his years as a Warden he had learned to fight against the pain that came with the taint and the faraway call of the archdemon. He hurried to the west side of the chamber, sticking to what little shadow the room offered. When he found obscurity behind the first golden griffon, he waited for only a moment before venturing out and sliding along the walls until he reached the next. There he bided his time, looking for an opening to catch Airador off guard.

He watched the two men in the center of the room locked in heated combat. Both of them had sustained minor injuries from the blade of the other, but nothing life threatening thus far. Airador and Kern were circling each other, each man waiting for the perfect opportunity to best his opponent. The Senior Warden locked eyes with Larius. The older man’s were filled with deadly resolve, and Larius was immediately aware that it was Kern’s plan to sacrifice himself in order to give Larius the distraction he needed to take the Commander down. The younger Warden shook his head vehemently, doing his best in his silence to tell Kern they could find another way.

Airador, apparently realizing someone was behind him, began to turn his head to locate the threat waiting in the shadows, when Kern gave a mighty cry and charged forward. The elf circled back just in time to shove his dagger into the Senior Warden’s gut, jam it up into his lungs, and twist it with a flick of his wrist. Larius had to fight the urging of the voice inside his head to remain where he was. His body detached from his brain while his legs carried him out into the open. As he ran, as if by pure instinct alone, his arms lifted his sword high above his right shoulder. Just as Airador was pulling his dagger free of Kern’s body, Larius’s blade found its target at the base of the Commander’s neck, sending the elf’s head flying through the air until it bounced against the eastern griffon statue.

Airador’s limp body crumpled to the stone in a heap atop Kern. Larius kicked it away before falling to his knees at the side of his rapidly expiring superior. In desperation, the younger Warden called out to Janeka to come help Kern, but she was unable to hear him as she was still locked within the throes of the torture inside her own mind. Rivulets of crimson spilled out onto the Senior Warden’s silver chest plate as he opened his mouth to speak. He sputtered and coughed before spitting out a mouthful of blood in an effort to clear his airway long enough to give his final command.

“You are...in command…now,” he managed between rattling gasps. “Commander…Grey…Get them…out.” He pulled in a shallow, gurgling breath. “Repair…seals…Gallows.”

Larius bobbed his head in understanding. He knew exactly what Kern meant. It was solely up to him to find an untainted mage in the nearby city of Kirkwall, a mage that would be able to repair the seals and reconstruct the barriers. He clapped a fist to his heart and gave a final bow of his head to his captain as Kern’s lids fluttered and then finally opened wide, announcing his passage through the Veil.

Quietly, he reached up and closed the Senior Warden’s eyes. Corypheus’s voice inside his head was growing louder, more insistent. He had to get away from that place before he ended up a blubbering madman like Airador. Larius placed Kern’s sword upon his chest and folded the man’s lifeless hands over the hilt before retrieving a vial of oil and the flint and steel kit from the pouch on his belt. Working as quickly as possible, he removed the breastplate of Airador’s uniform to rip a large piece of the elf’s undertunic away. He then retrieved Janeka’s staff from the floor, wrapped the cloth around it, and doused it with oil. After pouring the remaining liquid onto Kern’s body, he sparked a fire onto the makeshift torch and set the corpse aflame.

Without so much as a glance behind him, he hurried to the others. After several hard smacks to the cheeks, Roland was the first to gain his senses. Larius ordered him to help Alec and Dursten while he scooped Janeka up into his arms and carried her out. The further away they ventured from the tower, the less prominent the voice became. Janeka finally awoke just before they came to the outer doors of the prison and was able to manage walking on her own once they reached the barracks.

It was midday before they passed through the outer gates, but Larius did not dare stop. He wouldn’t allow himself to stop until the voice of the monster inside his head dissipated completely. It wasn’t until they reached the bridge over the dried up riverbed where they made camp the night before entering the prison that he finally brought his small company to a halt. Even though they had gone an entire day without food or sleep, Larius only allowed them a short rest before they were on the move again. They walked until the sun had disappeared along with the shadow of the wretched mountain that housed that infernal place.

When they made camp that evening, Larius informed the others that he would be going to Kirkwall alone while they were to travel back to Weisshaupt to give their report to the High Constable about what had taken place. With any luck, Larius would be able to find the information he needed in Kirkwall to perform the ritual to replace the prison’s barriers. If that went as planned, then all he would need was to convince the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall to cooperate with him by allowing him to borrow one of the Circle mages who could perform the ritual. If that didn’t work, then he would just have to find an apostate to help him…or kidnap one of the Circle mages. Either way, it made little difference to him. He would do whatever was necessary to ensure Corypheus would never again see the light of day.


	2. The Rose and the Thorn

“Did you hear the news about Revka?” Emilita Amell asked her family as they sat around the table for afternoon tea.

Teatime was Leandra’s mother’s favorite time of day. No matter who she was with, it gave her the chance to enjoy her favorite pastime, gossip. Always current on the latest news and happenings in Kirkwall, Emilita was the first one all the other ladies sought out to learn the juiciest scandals of the city’s nobility. It was one of the things that made her so popular among the elite, the very model of a highborn lady.

Leandra’s father met Lady Emilita de Montfort during one of his many trips to Orlais in his youth. They were introduced by her distant cousin Meghren at a ball celebrating her cousin Ser Bastien’s marriage to the Lady Corinne. Although Aristide Amell was considered a minor noble by Orlesian standards, Duke Michel de Montfort allowed Aristide to court and eventually marry his youngest daughter. Two years after their wedding, Leandra was born, followed by her brother Gamlen three years later.

Emilita was the mother whom all the other noble daughters in Kirkwall wished they had. A woman in her early forties, she was even more beautiful than her younger image in the wedding portrait hanging over the mantle in the sitting room. Even the small strands of silver glinting throughout her thick, dark auburn hair added to her striking appearance. Her skin was the color of purest alabaster and her facial features delicate. Standing just shy of five feet tall, her petite figure completed a stunning package.    

Aristide took a sip of his tea before replacing the small cup onto its saucer. With the size of her father’s hands, Leandra often wondered how he managed to keep from breaking the fragile porcelain. He wasn’t exactly a tall man, a bit shorter than average many would say, but he was quite stocky. Not fat by any stretch of the imagination, but broad shouldered and muscular.

Leandra inherited more of her father’s traits than her mother’s. Her nose also more closely resembled the Amell side of her heritage, and, like Aristide, her hair was completely strait and colored a dark, sable brown. The one trait Leandra was happy to have inherited from her father was his eyes, lapis blue with tiny flecks of gold peppered throughout, which often grew more prominent with a change in mood.

“Did she finally have the child?” Aristide asked.

Emilita nodded. “Yes, a boy this time.”

“What did cousin Revka name him?” Leandra questioned.

Her mother’s mouth twisted into a sour expression. “Decimus, if you can believe it. Such an Imperial name.”

A hint of disdain shined in Aristide’s eyes. “Well, I only hope this one turns out to be normal.”

“Yes,” Emilita agreed. “One already with the curse. If this one turns out to be like her, Revka should really consider sterilization before she brings any more disgrace to the Amell family name.”

Leandra flinched when a pair of heavy fists slammed down onto the surface of the table. As if by instinct, she silently used her napkin to dab at the spilled tea on the ivory linen cloth around her saucer. A sidelong glance to her left revealed her younger brother glaring at their parents, his lapis eyes full of animosity and indignation.

Gamlen was forever getting into arguments with Aristide and Emilita about injustices forced upon one group of people in Kirkwall or another. If it wasn’t the mages, it was the foreign merchants. If it wasn’t the foreign merchants it was the poor. Leandra admired her brother’s ability to speak his mind, which he did quite often. Sometimes she wished she had his courage. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be stuck with a betrothal to a man she loathed.

“Is something on your mind, dear?” Emilita questioned in her sweetest, most condescending tone.

Gamlen’s grimace deepened. “You know bloody damn well what’s on my mind.”

“Language, dear,” their mother scolded.

The younger man ran his fingers through his thick, dark auburn hair in frustration. His tone softened to a reticent plea when he asked, “Do you ever listen to yourselves? A new baby in the family should be celebrated. It should never be another opportunity for you to look down on others. What would you have done if Leandra or I would have been born with magic? Would you have just pretended to have never bore us because we would have been too big an embarrassment to your high society friends?”

He stood up and shook his head, fire shining in his eyes once again, then threw his napkin down on the table. “I am so tired of everyone treating magic like it’s some sort of bloody disease.”

“Gamlen, you know very well that Chantry law…” Emilita began.

“Hang Chantry law!” he bellowed. “The subjugation of mages is a crime against humanity. Those laws are both antiquated and unjust. The only reason the Chantry locks up those with the gift is because it’s afraid that freeing them will tip the balance of power and the people of Thedas will discover the Chant is horseshit.”

His mother gasped. “Gamlen! That is blasphemy!”

“Better a blasphemer than a stuck up, pretentious snob like the rest of you,” he growled before whirling around and stomping toward the front door.

Unable to catch her breath, Leandra’s mother began fanning herself with her hand. “What are we going to do with that child?”

“I’ll have another talk with him, love,” Aristide assured her. “He’s just young and impetuous. Idealism is one of the many follies of youth. Give him time. He’ll come to understand how the world really works.”

Leandra gulped back freshly formed tears. She hated it when her brother started such fights with their parents. To hide her distress from her mother, she returned her concentration to cleaning the mess Gamlen made with his outburst by wiping her cup and saucer with her already soiled napkin. As she quietly took another sip, her mother was overcome with the vapours and fainted on the spot. The next moment, her father collected his wife into his arms and whisked her up to their room, leaving Leandra alone.

After daubing the corners of her mouth, the young woman headed outside to find her brother sitting on one of the stone benches in the garden, staring blankly at the rose bushes. A twig the servants neglected to pick up from the ground snapped beneath Leandra’s foot, prompting her brother to turn his eyes to her.

“Let me guess. Mother had another one of her fainting spells.”

Leandra waggled her head as she took a seat next to him. “Why do you do that Gamlen? You know how much it upsets mother when you say such things.”

“Because I’m sick and tired of her being such an elitist prig.”

“Gamlen,” she gasped with widened eyes. “You shouldn’t say such things about Mother.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Look how much coin she and father spend on clothes and lavish parties. There are so many people in Kirkwall who are in need, and they just throw their money away on frivolities. Mother looks down her nose to everyone. It’s not right, Leandra.”

“You know that she’ll probably get the Grand Cleric involved after what you said about the Chantry.”

“Doubtful,” he scoffed. “It would be too embarrassing. Imagine the scandal if her friends found out. Mother won’t do anything if it could possibly cause tongues to wag about her.”

His sister heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So how do you really feel about all of that?” he asked, his face set in a scowl. “The Chantry and the mages, I mean?”

Leandra chewed her lower lip for a moment, nervous from the weight of judgment in her brother’s eyes. Nobody ever asked for her opinions. Most of the time, she just sat in silence, listening to one side or another of her family rant about such things. Usually, she preferred to stay out of it in the hopes that she could avoid invoking anyone’s ire.

“Well,” she began in a quiet voice. “The Chantry says that mages are dangerous. Because of their magic, they are constantly at risk for being lured by demons. Without the Chantry and the templars there to watch over them, they would give into temptation.”

“And you honestly believe that?”

She cringed, aware her answer would be met with derision. “Yes.”

“Then you, sister, are part of the problem as well,” he sneered. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. You always do exactly as Mother tells you. Mother’s delicate little flower. Do you even have a mind of your own?”

Gamlen’s words stung Leandra to her very core. “That’s not fair, Brother.”

He waggled his head and turned his attention back to the roses. “Just go. I don’t feel like wasting my breath anymore today.”

Leandra’s shoulders slumped as tears began to dampen her cheeks. Why did she have to open her mouth? She should have given a noncommittal response. She should have never told him her opinion. The worst part was, she feared he was right. Was that really how she felt? Or did she hold that opinion because it was what was expected of her?

As she made her way back to the front of the house, Leandra wondered if there would ever come a day when she no longer questioned herself. Would she ever find her own voice or was she doomed to remain forever silent in an effort to try to please everyone around her? She knew that Guilliaume would prefer for her to stay exactly as she was, a quiet, obedient, dutiful woman whom he could place upon his mantle as a trophy for all to see. Another status symbol.

Leandra’s tears flowed faster with that notion. She saw no way out of the life that had been laid out for her. Her future was written in stone, and there seemed to be nothing she could do to change it.

* * *

 

 

The sun hung low over the sea through the twin statues that stood as the sentinels of the city. Nightfall couldn’t come fast enough for Malcolm Hawke as he stood just out of sight near the warehouse’s small loading dock. The sooner the job was completed, the sooner they could leave Kirkwall behind.

The smell of saltwater and dead fish assaulted his nostrils, compelling him to scowl with disgust. Malcolm hated everything about that stinking cesspool of a city, and the pungent aroma was the least of it. For one thing, the nobles there turned a blind eye to the crime and poverty of Lowtown, content to remain in their Hightown estates in glorious obliviousness to the plight of their needier counterparts. But the worst part about the city lay just beyond the channel in a fortress called the Gallows.

Once a prison to slaves of the Tevinter Imperium, the Gallows had become the most infamous Circle in all of Thedas, holding mages captive in lieu of elves. Growing up in the Tower of Magi of Ferelden, Malcolm heard all the horror stories regarding the Kirkwall Circle and the many abuses the mages there were made to suffer. The last thing he ever wanted was to be captured by a templar from that horrid place.

As usual, Malcolm had spent the better part of the day searching for the son he never intended to father and only held once before the boy’s mother disappeared with him, just as completely and mysteriously as she had the night they met. At least she afforded him the chance to name the child before she vanished, Garrett Malcolm. Whether the baby shared his father’s surname was unknown to the man, but he didn’t have a clue as to what else it might be. He barely knew the mother’s given name, let alone her last.

He met Belladonna upon his first visit to Kirkwall, just a few days after joining the Crimson Oars. Unwilling to traverse Lowtown alone, his fellow mercenary, Meeran, convinced Malcolm into venturing to the Blooming Rose the night they arrived. After an especially trying day, Malcolm wasn’t interested in companionship that evening. His plan was to have a few drinks at the bar until Meeran completed his business then escort his companion back to the Hanged Man.

He found that Meeran had other plans in mind when the bloody bastard plunked enough coin on the counter in front of the madam for them both to partake. Grumbling to himself and vowing to exact revenge on his cohort, Malcolm entered one of the bedchambers, fully intending to dismiss the prostitute to fetch a bottle of Rivaini rum and request it be put on Meeran’s tab.

The woman who greeted him inside, however, was no ordinary whore. One glimpse of Belladonna’s thick raven tresses and golden eyes captivated him completely. She enchanted him with her soft voice and quiet demeanor, but it was her magic that caused him to lose all sense of reason. It was ancient and powerful. A power he hadn’t felt since he was a child when an elf named Jace visited him in the orphanage a handful of times to take him for walks in the forest. It was an overwhelming sensation Malcolm couldn’t resist, compelling him to give in to his most base desires.

He thought about Belladonna many times over the next few months. He even returned to the Blooming Rose to take pleasure in her company again upon the Oars’ next foray into the city, but the madam swore she’d never heard of anyone matching that name or description.

One late night at an inn in Deriav, fourteen months after their liaison, Malcolm met Belladonna for the second time when she introduced him to his son. Although the child shared the apostate’s unusual aquamarine colored eyes, Malcolm insisted on questioning the validity of the woman’s claim. When she invited him to use magic to confirm her story, he discovered the truth he already knew in his heart. The boy was his son.

Malcolm requested to meet with Belladonna again the next day, even paying for her stay at the inn that evening, but when he went to her room the following morning, both she and the child were gone. For three years, he searched for Garrett and his mother, but always came up empty handed. It didn’t deter him, however. He intended to find his son, no matter how long it took.

He often wondered what Garrett would be like. Had he grown more to look like his father or his mother? How many times did he fall before finally succeeding in taking his first step unaided? What was his first word? Would he be a mage? Or would he be lucky enough to grow into a man without worrying about templars coming to take him from his bed in the middle of the night?

A cold shiver ran up Malcolm’s spine upon observing the great stone stronghold across the water. There was a good chance Garrett would become a prisoner there one day or, perhaps, he would be sent to one of the many other Circles scattered throughout Thedas. The apostate cursed his gift and the Maker for inflicting him with such a cancer.

A warm ocean breeze picked up, shifting the city’s stink in Malcolm’s direction with greater intensity. Tufts of ebony hair fluttered in the wind as his eyes began to water. He pulled the red kerchief tied around his neck up across the heavy, dark stubble of his chin and cheeks and over his nose to mask the foul odor. It didn’t do much to block the offending stench, but even a minor improvement was better than nothing.

When he decided he could no longer stomach the sights and smells of the docks, Malcolm trod up the rickety wooden steps to his right to join his fellows who were holed up in one of the upstairs offices. He didn’t speak a word after closing the door behind him. While the others chattered on about their families and what they were going to do with their pay when the current job was completed, Malcolm paced back and forth near the door. A nagging feeling of foreboding had settled into his gut that afternoon that he just couldn’t shake it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Meeran watching him beneath a thick, dark fringe of hair. “Hey, Hawke,” he finally ventured with a perturbed expression on his young, pockmarked face. “Why don’t you take a seat before you wear a hole in the floor?”

“Yeah, Hawke. Sit down,” Erick agreed. “My luck’s for shit today. You may actually have a chance to beat me this time.”

Malcolm shook his head. “No thanks. I barely have enough coin left to feed myself after the last time I played Wicked Grace with you, Strand.”

In addition to being the leader of their faction, Erick Strand was the best card player the mage ever had the misfortune of losing to. He was sure Erick cheated, but he was too skilled to ever be caught.

The other man chuckled, his slender frame shaking with the guffaw as a mischievous twinkle shone in his steely grey eyes. “Perhaps the Maker knows I need it more. I have a wife and kid to feed back home, remember?”

“That reminds me,” Meeran smirked as he sorted the cards in his hand. “How _is_ my son these days? What did you name him again?”

“Ignacio,” Erick snorted, causing the hairs of his thick ginger mustache to vibrate under the weight of his breath. “As if Evangeline would ever let you within a hundred feet of her, Meeran. She has some standards, you know.”

“Her standards must not be too high,” Athenril chimed in. The elven woman’s face was stone as she rearranged her cards, delivering her next quip without even the slightest hint of emotion. “She married your sorry ass, didn’t she?”

“Jealous, Athens?” Erick asked, not bothering look up from his own hand.

“Of what?” she retorted casually. “I wouldn’t give a plug copper for the lot of you idiots.”

Meeran stood long enough to grab his crotch and make a rude gesture to the elf. “You know you want some of this.”

Her thin brow arched beneath mousy brown bangs. “Some of what? The dirty sock you keep stuffed in your smallclothes?” Her insult incited a burst of laughter from the others. She allowed the sound linger in the air a few moments before addressing Meeran and Erick again. “What you boys don’t seem to understand is, I got plans. After this job, I’m finished with the Oars for good.”

“Oh yeah?” Meeran questioned with a doubtful tone. “What are you gonna do, Athens? Get a job at the Rose? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, with that face you should probably stick with mercenary work.”

“Actually,” Malcolm interjected, his mind temporarily taking a rest from his troubled thoughts. “She’s going to be taking over for Duval.”

“That fat bastard’s finally going to retire from the smuggling business?” Meeran chortled. “What is he now? A hundred and fifty?”

“I’ve been saving my wages for the last couple of years,” Athenril explained. “I made him a good offer and he took it.”

Meeran grunted. “Yeah, I can just imagine what kind of offer you made him. Let your blades do your talking for you?”

The elf flashed a wry smile. “Let’s just say he had a vested interest in keeping his balls where they were.”

“And you really think Royer’s just going to let you quit?” Erick questioned. “Just like that?”

“I already talked to him about it,” Athenril confessed as she dealt out the cards for another round. “He wished me well.”

“And when were you planning on telling us?” Erick asked. Malcolm could sense the man was attempting to keep an even countenance, but he knew Erick well enough to discern her admission had cut him to the quick.

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, pretending to concentrate on her cards. “I planned on telling you. Right after we were finished with this job.”

“And you knew about this?” Erick asked. Disappointment colored the steely gaze that was now fixed on Malcolm. “Why didn’t _you_ say anything?”

Malcolm shrugged. “It wasn’t my news to tell.”

Meeran’s nut brown eyes bored holes into Athenril’s skull as his lips curled into a sneer. He slapped his cards down on the worn wooden surface of the table, and Malcolm readied himself for the ranting that was about to begin. He was surprised when Meeran retained his reticence, content to merely glower at the elf. After a long and awkward moment of silence, he simply retrieved his hand then broke into entirely too loud and obvious laughter.

“Is something funny, Meeran?” queried the elf.

“Yeah. The idea of you quitting the Oars to run your own smuggling ring. You had me worried there for a minute, Athens. Great joke, though.”

“Really?” she drawled with a bored expression. “And what made that change?”

Meeran presented her with a tight-lipped grin that bordered on contempt. “Because you don’t stand a chance. You’ll be flat broke this side of three months, groveling to get your old job back.”

Athenril smacked her full lips with an annoyed pop and rolled her eyes. “Sure, Meeran. Whatever you say. Your fortunetelling abilities are absolutely astounding. That foul up on that job in Cumberland a few months back proved that.”

Unwilling to get caught in the middle of the inevitable heated argument that was about to commence, Malcolm slipped out the door back into the warehouse. He knew exactly why Meeran reacted the way he did, just as he knew the reason for Athenril’s departure from the Oars. She told Malcolm it was because she was tired of the life of a mercenary, but they both knew it was a lie the moment the words left her mouth. The real reason was Erick.

The four of them had been together since Malcolm joined the Oars five years prior. After escaping Kinloch, the apostate took refuge on the pirate ship, Yavana’s Call, under Captain Marko Cortez. The captain was a decent man who held no love for the Chantry or their templars. He had a standing rule that no Chantry knight was ever allowed to set foot on his ship without being thrown to the sharks.

Marko allowed Malcolm passage in return for his service as a healer for six months. The apostate was happy to oblige, relieved to find someone in the world outside the Circle who appreciated his talents. During his stay on the _Call_ , Marko took a liking to the mage, teaching him everything he knew about sailing, blades, and bows. After a few months, he even took to referring to Malcolm as his son when they were in port.

For the first time in his life, Malcolm felt as if he had a home, that he belonged and was appreciated. When the six months were up, he decided to stay. It wasn’t until the old pirate began hinting that he wanted the mage to take over his ship someday, that Malcolm decided to move on. After spending most of his life trapped in a Circle, he didn’t want to be locked in any cage again, even a gilded one.

Marko was disappointed when Malcolm told him of his decision, but vowed to aid his protégé in any way he could. When the ship made port in Cumberland, the captain introduced the mage to Royer, the founder of the Crimson Oars, before wishing him well in his endeavors and sailing for Rivain.

That afternoon, Royer placed Malcolm in Erick’s squad. Erick was reluctant to take on a new recruit, especially an apostate healer. That very evening, Malcom proved his worth to the company when he saved Erick’s life after the two of them were jumped in an alleyway by an opposing merc band. Malcolm always suspected Royer set it up, but he could never prove the truth of the deed.

When they arrived at the inn, the mage was introduced to Athenril who was recruited into the Oars the same day as Erick, and Meeran, who had just joined up a few weeks prior. Over the following five years, Erick, Athenril, and Meeran became family to Malcolm. Like Marko, they never looked down on him for having magic, choosing instead to protect him from any templars who discovered he was an apostate. They even aided him as he endeavored to find his son.

It only took a few months for Malcolm to realize he was caught in the middle of a love triangle. Not as a participant, of course, but as an unfortunate spectator. Meeran was head over heels for Athenril, while she only had eyes for Erick, who chose to ignore that fact completely. Then, around the time Malcolm found out about Garrett, Erick sustained a life-threatening injury while they were on a job in Antiva and the others were forced to leave him behind. At first, Athenril refused to abandon Erick, but Royer insisted by threatening her seniority and the pay that went along with it. She was given temporary leadership until Erick recovered, but she swore she would return for him as soon as the next assignment in Rivain was finished.

By the time they returned to retrieve Erick, he had fallen in love with the Antivan woman who nursed him back to health and they were married upon discovering she was carrying his child. Athenril was heartbroken. So heartbroken, in fact, that she got stinking drunk that night and shared a bed with Meeran. The next morning, she sought out Malcolm and confessed both her love for Erick and her repulsion at what she had done the previous evening. Meeran’s obsession with the elven woman became worse after that, even though she told him many times there wasn’t a chance in Thedas she would share a bed with him again. Athenril’s decision to leave the Oars came as no surprise to Malcolm on the back of everything that happened. In fact, the only thing that really surprised him was how long it took for her to come to that decision. She hadn’t been the same since Erick married Evangeline. Her heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

The last rays of the sinking sun were glistening across the water when Malcolm settled himself down next to the small pier. As his mind began to wander back to thoughts of his son, he spotted a small merchant ship making its way through the channel and squinted his eyes to see if he could determine its colors. The moment the flag became discernible, he knew it was the ship they were expecting. The dwarves would be there soon, but not until all the sailors were clear of the vessel.

Malcolm lumbered to his feet and lazily stretched his six foot three inch frame before making his way back to the office. After informing the others about the ship’s arrival, he shuffled toward the entrance to the warehouse and cracked the door open enough to be able to watch for any signs of trouble in the shadows outside.

Just before the Chantry bells rang in the midnight hour, long after the others had abandoned their game and joined Malcolm by the entryway, the mage spotted movement in the darkness from an abandoned building on the other side of the docking bay. He motioned to his fellows to ready their weapons then quietly pulled his daggers from their sheaths. He waited until only a handful of dwarven lookouts remained outside of the ship before slipping out the door into the shadows. While the other mercenaries crept to the dock where the merchant vessel was anchored, Malcolm and Meeran skirted around guards, silently slitting their throats along the way.

Once the two men had disposed of the lookouts, they made their way to the ship. Malcolm had just crossed the threshold where the wooden planks met the cobblestone when everything went to the void. A series of loud explosions splint the night sky as black smoke billowed from the ship.

“What the fuck was that?” Meeran bellowed.

“Lyrium explosives,” Malcolm shouted over the shouting of dwarves and mercenaries.

Doing his best to ignore the lyrium’s magical power crackling in the air around him, the mage bolted toward the sinking vessel to find the bodies of dwarves and men alike floating on the water’s surface. His heart sank upon recognizing Athenril’s thin frame and long brown hair dancing on the waves. He had to get to her, before she was lost to the void. Just as he began to remove his coat to jump in after her, the elf threw her head back and began to gasp and sputter for breath.

Malcolm dropped to his knees and reached out to his companion. “Athens! Take my hand!”

Still choking on the vile water, Athenril nodded then grabbed Malcolm’s wrist so he could pull her to the dock. As he heaved her out of the water, he spotted Erick a few feet away. The captain seemed disoriented from the blast and the ensuing confusion, but, otherwise, little worse for the wear.

The mage opened his mouth to regale his leader with a snide comment, when the water behind Erick began to bubble. Before Malcolm could warn Erick of the impending danger, an armed dwarf broke the surface and dove for the captain. Without a second thought, Malcolm threw out his free hand and blasted the diminutive attacker with a well-placed shard of ice. The dwarf froze on the spot and bobbed in the water for only a moment before Malcolm hit him with a blast of force magic to shatter the smaller man into hundreds of tiny fragments.

“Apostate!” a female voice from behind him barked. “By the authority of the Knight-Commander, I order you to put down your weapons and turn yourself in.”

“Hawke,” Athenril croaked, desperation and worry filling her moss green eyes. “You have to get out of here.”

The elf knew as well as he did that if the templars caught him, he would be thrown in one of the dungeon cells of the Gallows where he would likely receive the brand. With an appreciative smile to his old friend, he gulped in a deep breath then plunged headfirst into the water. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught. Not now. There was too much left to do.

As he released his breath to allow him to sink further beneath the surface, his thoughts turned to Garrett. Of all the vows he’d broken in his life, that was the one he wasn’t willing to abandon. Given everything that had happened in his life, all the things he’d suffered, surely there was enough mercy in the Maker to allow him that one concession.


	3. Stars

By the time Meredith arrived with her men, the warehouse docks were already in chaos and ruin. It was obviously the handiwork of opposing factions of Carta dwarves and mercenaries. Most likely the end result of the two groups’ intention to steal the illegal cargo of the obliterated and smoking ship now sinking beneath the waves.

The young Knight-Captain was already in a foul mood before the commotion at the harbor ever began. Earlier that evening, she received a report of an apostate residing in Lowtown, so she took it upon herself to gather a squad of the Gallows’ finest templars to go investigate the claim.  The “eyewitness account” was nothing more than an idiotic accusation from a fool who wouldn’t know the difference between a mage and a sewer rat if his life depended on it. The “mage” turned out to be some lowlife, two-bit thief running a shell game who used sleight of hand to bilk unsuspecting denizens out of their coin.

Although the young man was technically breaking the law, his crime wasn’t of any concern to Meredith. At the same time, she couldn’t just let him go after wasting so much time on the investigation, so she called for the city guard to apprehend the thief. Looking forward to returning to her office and what was sure to be cold stew and tea by then, she had just stepped onto the ferry at the western docks when an explosion from the warehouse district shook the entire southern half of the city.

Upon descending the stairs that led to the warehouse docks, Meredith spied an ebony-haired man wearing a charcoal grey duster with a wide red sash throwing spells into the water. The Crimson Oars. The Knight-Captain cursed herself for not heeding a report that crossed her desk a few days earlier about an apostate hiding among the mercenary group.

Her long flaxen braid bounced against her spine as she sped toward the end of what was left of the dock. When she neared the edge of the pier, she skidded to a halt and bared her blade. “Apostate! By the authority of the Knight-Commander, I order you to put down your weapons and turn yourself in.”  

The man hesitated just long enough for Meredith to throw back a lyrium potion in preparation for a coming attack. She took a step to the left to approach him, when she noticed the heave of his chest and shoulders as he inhaled a deep breath.

_Fuck! He’s going to try to escape!_

Throwing her two-handed sword to the ground, the Knight-Captain dove for the apostate, but he plunged into the water, a bit too quick and a little too far away to catch.

“Torch!” she demanded as she scrambled forward.

Within moments, she was flat on her belly, torch in hand, and searching the water, but it was too late. The sewage-laden sea surrounding the city was too murky even in the daytime to discern anything over a few feet within its inky depths. With a huff, she doused the light into the thick, foul-smelling liquid.

_Damn it to the void!_

“Search the bodies!” she barked as she rose to her feet. “Bring me anything wearing a red sash at its waist. Dead or alive.”

She turned to retrieve her sword, when she caught sight of an elven woman wearing Oars colors attempting to crawl away. With her ire growing by the second, Meredith threw away all pretense of civility and snatched the slight woman by her mousy brown hair and hauled her to her feet before slinging her like a rag doll toward one of her men.

“Take this one back to the Gallows for questioning,” she growled before addressing Lieutenant Thrask. “You! Take Carver and search the warehouses. I want that apostate found or it’s your asses.”

Meredith seized another torch from one of the men searching the water and paced the length of the dock. A few survivors continued to tread water among the corpses, but none of them resembled the apostate. She had no idea who the man was, and she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that he was a mage living outside the Circle, and it was her duty to rectify that error. All Knight-Commander Guylian cared out about was coin, so it was up to her to protect the people of Kirkwall from those with magic. Nothing or no one would sway her from that sacred trust.

When the city guard arrived shortly after that, Meredith tasked them with fishing the bodies from the water while her templars continued their search of the area. Although she had no real authority to order the guardsmen, none dared argued with the Knight-Captain, especially given her foul mood. After a careful and fruitless examination of each of the living souls plucked from the sea, Meredith leaned her back against a mooring post and watched with disinterest as the guards stacked bodies like cordwood along the wharf.

It was nearly dawn before the Knight-Captain finally called off the search.  Somehow, the apostate managed to slip past her. She had no intention of giving up on locating the man, however. She just needed to regroup. Besides, it was just a matter of time until he resurfaced.

She knew the type all too well, mages hiding among mercenaries and smugglers. Men like that always turned up sooner or later. They couldn’t resist throwing their freedom in the face of the watchers. It was a challenge for them, but they were always captured eventually because the templars had the one thing scum like that could never possess. The righteous favor of the Maker. Evil men had no hope of standing against it.

She ambled to the edge of the dock to drape her forearm over one of the bollards then inhaled a deep breath. As she filled her lungs with the briny, fetid air, the Knight-Captain peered up at the waning stars. It was so long since the last time she allowed herself the occasion to observe the night sky. Although one of her favorite pastimes as a child, there always seemed to be too much to do for such an indulgence.

A slight smile curved the corners of her mouth. How could anyone look upon such beauty, such steadfastness without feeling the presence of the Maker? Even in a den of iniquity such as Kirkwall, the stars watched over the devout, not unlike sentinels. They never wavered nor waned. They simply stood guard.

It was a comfort to know that, although the apostate had escaped justice that night, the stars would see him. The Maker knew the mage’s whereabouts, even if the templars didn’t yet. She recalled the tales her mother told her when she was a girl.

_Do you know what stars are, Meri? They’re the spirits of the brave and valiant who’ve died. They are the Maker’s knights, his personal guards watching everything we do and hearing every prayer we pray. And every morning before they go to bed, they report back to Him. That’s how He knows our prayers, Meri, and our sins. So, if you’re a really good girl and keep a true and valiant heart, maybe someday you’ll be allowed to join those knights._

Meredith’s heart sank at the memory of her mother. She was a good and decent woman who died too young at the hand of her own loving nature. In fact, her parents’ death was the very reason she became a templar.

Her older sister Amelia was always a frail girl, prone to sickness and bedridden for a great deal of her childhood. When Amelia was eleven and Meredith eight, she began to show signs of magical ability. It wasn’t long after her parents made the discovery of their daughter’s curse, that Amelia’s health began to improve. For the first time in her life, she was able to leave her bed and go outside to play with the other children.

Their mother touted the phenomena as a miracle, even as strange things began happening around their home. The distinct smell of violets permeated everything when none of the flowers were ever in or near the house, and strange voices could be heard in the room the girls shared when no one but Meredith was awake.

Over the next year, Meredith watched her sister change into a completely different girl. Amelia’s demeanor became dark and brooding as the sweet scent of violets in the air transformed into the heavy, putrid stench of sulfur. She stopped associating with the other children and would often wander the streets of Kirkwall alone, sometimes in the middle of the night. Meredith pleaded with her sister to talk to her, but her appeals were met with only hateful sneers and threatening glares.

Then, one night, Meredith overheard her father attempting to convince her mother that Amelia was troubled, and they needed to turn to the Circle for help, but the older woman refused to listen. She feared for her child’s safety, claiming that Amelia would never be able to survive the Circle and the templars given her delicate nature. After hours of debate, Meredith’s father finally gave in and agreed that Amelia should remain at home. Two days later, tragedy struck the Stannard household.

Meredith was at the Chantry that morning attending lessons with Mother Elthina. Instead of going straight home for lunch, the young girl took advantage of the bright, early spring day and stayed after lessons to play conkers with some of the other children and won all three matches. Then, on the way home, with a growling belly and the shiny copper in her pocket Elthina gave her for excelling on a particularly difficult exam, Meredith stopped at the sweets shop in Hightown for a handful of treats.

When she finally arrived home, she found the door wide open. Nothing unusual given the lovely weather that day. Knowing she was most likely in trouble for her late arrival, the girl tiptoed into the house and toward her room in the hopes of avoiding her mother’s attention and ire for at least a little while.

She stopped in her tracks upon hearing a low, rumbling growl emanating from her parents’ bedchamber. It sounded like a wild animal was trapped within. The girl’s heart raced as she made her way to the bedroom door. Perhaps her parents decided to finally purchase the puppy she’d been begging for. Deep down, she knew a dog hadn’t made that noise, but her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to run. Instead, she slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open just far enough to see inside.

The moment the overpowering stench of sulfur and copper assaulted her nose, Meredith gagged hard enough to stain her new ivory dress with globs of gingerbread from the cookie she ate on the way home. When she recovered her senses, she discovered the source of the copper smell, though she wished she hadn’t. Splatters of crimson painted the walls and furniture of the room, leaving nothing untouched.

Her wide-eyed gaze trailed a line to the bed where her parents lay in a river of blood. If she didn’t know any better, Meredith would have sworn they had been mauled by feral beasts. Deep gashes and rips marred both their bodies, while her mother’s flaxen hair was plastered to her face in sticky black clumps from the large hole in her skull.

As if in a trance, Meredith clutched the doorjamb to support her wobbly knees as her vision faded. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to scream, but the cry caught in her throat, replaced by a quiet whimper.  

A shift in the shadow of the far right corner of the room caught her eye. She wanted to run, but her trembling legs wouldn’t budge. Her heart thundered against her small ribcage as she watched her sister emerge from the darkness. Amelia’s normally pale green eyes were jetstone black, and her blood-spattered face was twisted into a malevolent sneer that turned Meredith’s blood to ice in her veins. In her hand was a long dagger, coated in blood that left a trail on the floor as she approached.

“Amy?” Meredith squeaked.

Her throat was so raw and dry that speaking the name caused her wince in pain. Her sister didn’t answer, only continued her gradual progression toward her younger sibling.

“Amy?” she repeated a bit louder. Her entire body trembled along with her voice. “Amy, it’s me. Meri.”

There was no response. Only cold, ebony eyes staring directly through to her soul. In a flash, Amelia lunged at Meredith to capture the smaller girl’s left pigtail. With a violent yank, Amelia jerked her sister into her chest to place her knife against Meredith’s throat.

Thick tendrils of black smoke rose from Amelia’s body, as the putrid stench of sulfur grew so strong that Meredith was forced to shut her eyes against the stinging of her tears. The room grew cold, as if the entire world had been plunged into the iciest depths of the ocean. She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat only to feel the bite of Amelia’s blade against her neck. Her chest shook as a trickle of blood flowed from the cut to the collar of her dress. A soft whimper emanated from somewhere deep in her lungs as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Amy?” she finally managed, forcing the blade to dig deeper into her flesh. “Please don’t do this. Please.”

Meredith opened her eyes to see Amelia’s pale green ones staring helplessly into hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispered before shoving her younger sister to the floor and running out into the city.

Waves of sorrow and tears overtook Meredith when she realized she wasn’t going to die. As she lay there weeping, the bile she so desperately tried to hold back spewed out of her like the tide in a storm. When her vomiting finally ceased, the young girl crawled to her parents’ bed and pulled herself up the side. She inched her way over her mother’s lifeless body to lay between her parents, then nuzzled her head against her mother’s chest. The woman’s skin was like ice as Meredith pulled the bloody arm around her shoulders before crying herself to sleep.

Sometime later, she awoke in the dark when someone picked her up and carried her out of the house. She rubbed the sleep from her puffy eyes, thankful her horrible nightmare was finally over then snuggled in closer into her father’s chest.

He smelled different. Something was wrong. Very wrong

“First Enchanter, how is she?”

It was Mother Elthina.

“She had a nasty cut along her throat,” answered a voice from Meredith’s left. “But it was fairly simple to heal. Most of the blood belonged to her parents.”

A gentle hand stroked the little girl’s head. “The poor child. Would you mind carrying her back to the Chantry? And be gentle, please. We wouldn’t want to wake her. She’s been through enough.”

“She was lucky to have survived,” the man holding her observed. “Given what that monster did to the others. Has there been a final body count yet?”

Meredith recognized his voice. He was a templar. Ser Wentworth.

Elthina sighed. “Seventy-three in all, including Amelia and her parents.”

“At least it wasn’t seventy-four,” the First Enchanter added. “It could have been much worse.”

Meredith kept her eyes glued shut the entire way to the Chantry, but it didn’t prevent fresh tears from trickling down her blood-stained cheeks. It wasn’t a dream. Her parents really were dead, killed by her own sister. She overheard Ser Wentworth say Amelia was an abomination. Exactly like the ones the Grand Cleric warned about in her sermons. The Chantry was right. Mages were dangerous. Deadly.

Meredith remained in the Chantry after that, raised and mentored by Elthina and Ser Wentworth. The day the girl turned eleven, she dedicated her life to the service of the Chantry and moved to the Gallows to train as a templar when she was twelve. She still took time out of her training every week to visit with Elthina, who became like a mother to her over the three years she lived in the Chantry.

At sixteen, Meredith took her vows and her first draught of lyrium, and was named Knight-Captain by Ser Wentworth when his health no longer allowed him to serve in that position when she was twenty-two. After what happened to her family, Meredith never wanted to be anything else. Unlike most young women, she had no desire to be married or raise a family. The only thing she cared about was ensuring that no other little girl would ever be made to suffer the horrors she endured. She never doubted that mages left to their own devices would eventually give into the demons constantly trying to gain a foothold in the world. They had to be taught. They had to be watched vigilantly and when they became a threat, they had to be struck down without mercy.

“Knight-Captain,” a deep male voice rang in her ear, interrupting her introspection. “Are you ready to return to the Gallows? The Knight-Commander will be expecting your report.”

Meredith gave a solemn nod before turning to the young lieutenant. “Yes, Lancaster. Tell the others I’ll be right there.”

As she watched the man walk away, her resolve became stronger than ever. The memories of her parents and sister served as a reminder of how important it was that the apostate was captured and brought under templar control. As long as he remained outside of their custody, Kirkwall would never be safe, and the Knight-Captain was determined to see to it personally that he was put behind bars where he belonged.  


End file.
